Baseball is a Cult, and We Have Rituals
by That Girl Six
Summary: In which Scott eavesdrops at hours unfit for man or beast (or brothers).


**Disclaimers:** _Thunderbirds_ is the brainchild of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson and their teams. Bow low and grateful at the altar of their brilliance. Tequila and a crisp twenty should do it. Like all my stories, this one is rated T for language and nothing more.

Pitchers and catchers report in nine days. So here, have a ficlet! It's short! Really short! It's TAG-compliant! Obviously the apocalypse is upon us.

Thank you for your time, whether I hear about it or not. Thank you, though, to all of you who are so supportive with reviews, kudos, favorites, all that stuff. It keeps me writing. Enjoy! Six

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 **Baseball is a Cult, and We Have Rituals**

 _by That Girl Six_

He isn't sure why, but Scott feels the need to do a security check around the house. It's Dad's job, no matter how many months it's been since they've seen him, and one that Scott finds it hard to do in his stead. Keeping the boys going is one thing. Keeping Alan up on his studies and Gordon from pruning to the point of jungle rot in the pool he can do. Big brothers do that. But Dad does the bed checks. He doesn't do bedtime stories or tuck them in, but he makes sure they've made it home in one piece. Dad listens for nightmares. Dad hears every noise in the house. That's what Dads do.

But it's been eighteen hours since they came in from the last call, and it wasn't even a call that required boots on the ground. Gordon hasn't been out with them in three days. They should all be rested. There's no need for odd hours. There's no need for nerves.

John even promised Alan a weekend up on 'Five, just the two of them, if he solves whatever engineering test Virgil comes up with in some specific time table. Scott isn't all that interested in the details as long as it keeps Alan occupied. He's been moody lately, and any distraction is welcome.

But it's dark, too quiet, too two a.m., and Scott can't sleep. He's got nerves. So he's wandering. Not bed-checking, because that's Dad's job.

It's Alan's voice that catches Scott's attention. He doesn't sound particularly distressed, but he doesn't sound like his usual, _I'm a kid and I get to fly rockets_ enthusiastic for life self either.

"Do you think he knows we're doing this?"

Dialogue from whatever they're watching fills the silence until Gordon asks, "You mean, do I think he knows what day it is?"

"He has an internal clock for these things. Like maybe wherever he is is just so top secret he can't tell us where he is, but he's looking at the calendar and knows you're gonna do this anyway. Maybe he knows you wish he was here."

"I think he'd be here if he could. It's our day."

Some shuffling and clapping says one of them is moving around on the sofa with a popcorn bowl — or whatever else they've decided to toss in there. The things the two of them will eat, whether there's a dare involved or not, are disgusting.

And Scott has no idea what day Gordon's talking about. Damn it.

"They're gonna suck this year," Alan says, sounding sort of hopeful, like he doesn't really know what he's saying but he hopes Gordon will take it and run with it.

"Pitchers and catchers reported a couple hours ago, dork. It's too early to tell."

Scott cringes. Ah. It's never been anything he cared about, but the days from the first reporting day to the first official day of baseball season were — _are_ sacred to Dad and Gordon. They methodically make their way through every baseball movie ever made, no matter how little it has to do with actual baseball. But the day pitchers and catchers report is a big one. It's _*61_ and _42_ day. Always start with the numbers.

Scott has an icky gurgle in his stomach as he wonders if they'll skip _Frequency_ this year.

"And I'm telling you, they're gonna suck. Dad would say the same thing, and he knows more about baseball than Scott and Virgil and John's weirdo brain all put together. Shh, it's Dad's favorite part."

Scott resists the urge to protest — hey, he knows … _some_ baseball — but he can't pull himself away from the conversation either. It's not his, and he doesn't belong. Dad should be the one watching over them. Hell, Dad should be in there with them. Scott can hear the longing now. His brothers are in there, holding on to some hope that a ritual can bring their father home. It's awful and hurts in a way Scott hadn't let himself feel his father's absence yet. He slides down the wall slowly, still listening, because he likes the way they feel better than the hurt.

"Seriously, do you think stress like that can make people's hair fall out?" Alan asks after a while. "That's gross."

"Dad's not bald yet, and he's got us. If anybody could cause somebody's hair to fall out, it would be us. Definitely a myth."

"Can we test it on Scotty?"

"You're on."

Scott makes a mental note to booby-trap his door in the morning.

"I still think Maris got gypped for the Hall of Fame. It's not like we do any better with the press," Gordon grumbles a bit later over the lonesome music and sounds of rain coming from the speakers.

"Is that why Scott had me pulled out of school? I know they were camped out in front of school and all, but was it that bad? I tried to sneak around without them finding me, but I couldn't really stop other kids from talking, I guess."

"Nah, kid, we all just wanted you home. Closed ranks and all. Besides, I needed you here for this. Christmas seemed like a good time to do it was all."

"Oh." Alan's quiet for a bit before he cheers up. "The Yankees are gonna suck this year, too. At least those old guys made the game look cool. I don't even know any of the names this year."

"Don't I know it."

"Gords?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry I'm not Dad."

"C'mere." There's a slight rustling on the couch again. He can't see them, but Scott knows Gordon just put his arm around Alan in some way. It's what he would've done, anyway. "You're doing great. Thanks."

It's a private conversation, one Scott imagines exists between the Terrible Two in this weird, comfortable space they don't share with anyone else. Sure, they all miss Dad and are scared out of their minds that they may never see him again. Who wouldn't be? But they haven't really talked about it like this, not in such terms. It's always _When Dad gets home_ or _Until Dad gets home, this is…_ Talk of what Dad might be doing right now, if he's capable of doing anything at all seems too dark to think about. None of them are prepared to think they might be orphans. Orphans are Oliver and Annie and little cheeky cherubs who spontaneously break into song and get adopted by people like the Tracys. They don't become orphans themselves.

But they don't talk about it. That's only borrowing even more trouble than they already have.

The Two, though, they obviously have something in their language with each other that doesn't mean preemptive apologizing or protecting their asses while they speak. Damn if Scott's sure what any of it is, but he thinks he can live with it. Alan has questions they can't all always answer right now. Somebody has to be the big brother. Maybe it can't be Scott.

Scott pushes himself back to his feet. He doesn't want to, but he raps his knuckles on the door to drag their attention from the screen. He gives the screen a look, trying to actually place the movie they've been talking about, while they both pop their heads over the back of the couch to look at him. For once, neither of them looks busted.

"You guys okay?" he asks. Nope, he hasn't heard a word they've said. Not a bit.

"We're good," Gordon says. His smile, with a crumb of popcorn caught on his bottom lip, says he actually is. "Did you need something?"

"You do know what time it is, right?"

Neither of them has the grace to look like they care as they synchronously answer, "Yup."

"And bed doesn't sound like a good idea?"

"Forty-two days to Opening Day, Scott. We're on a tight schedule here. But if you old folks need to go to bed, we totally understand."

There's a slight pinch around Gordon's eyes, like he's trying to laser direct a thought into Scott's brain. The message isn't at all clear. _Get the fuck out. Come join us. Beware whatever we have in the bowl._ Scott can't tell, and that's message enough.

He can't fix everything.

"Not too much longer tonight, okay?" Scott claps the doorframe and holds out his hand in a wave.

"Yeah, okay, Grandma," Alan says, or tries to, but it sounds muffled under Gordon's hand over his mouth.

"'Night, Scott."

The Two sound like little girls giggling with their heads together as he walks away.

Maybe he should sleep in Dad's room tonight…

 _(February 2016)_


End file.
